


Chicken Little

by SegaBarrett



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Allusions to cannibalism, KFC, M/M, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25373218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: Hannibal and Will have to eat sometime.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12
Collections: Eat Drink and Make Merry 2020





	Chicken Little

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal and I make no money from this.

“Is there a particular reason your establishment has bullet-proof glass?” Hannibal Lecter inquired as he watched his meal appear from behind the plexiglass revolving shelf. “It feels rather… impersonal.”

The beleaguered employee, whose nametag read Sven of all things (or perhaps, Will conceded, they had somehow made it to Scandinavia and the Kentucky part was just meant ironically at this point), opened his mouth to reply before he was cut off by a stocky, sunburned man wearing a leather jacket and a pair of red shorts.

“I asked for six pieces of chicken and this is only five! I need to see a manager.”

“Exhibit A,” Sven told them, turning his head back towards the man. “If you want another piece of chicken in your five-piece meal, you need to pay a dollar thirty-five.”

“No I don’t!” the red-shirted man yelled back.

“It’s very rude of him,” Hannibal mused, looking over at Will. Will began to shake his head a moment, then seemed to consider the situation, then looked back apologetically at Sven before opening the plexiglass door and taking the cardboard box bearing the KFC red and white that had been placed into a bag. 

“Have a good day,” Will said. He turned and walked out of the door, then walked back in and grabbed Hannibal’s hand, leading him out into the car.

“But Will,” Hannibal protested, “I was just about to invite that… talkative young man to dinner.”

“I know you were.”

***

Their hideout had none of the opulence of Hannibal’s previous home, but it was a step up from some of the other places he had probably lived over the years. These were things, at least, Will knew without Hannibal saying them.

Most things that Will knew now, he knew without Hannibal needing to utter a syllable. 

“So what is our plan, exactly, Hannibal? Just keep hiding out and eating fast food? This doesn’t really seem like the life you were hoping for when you started off here?”

Hannibal reached out and began to peel back the fold of his Big Box, meticulously pulling it back and then folding it over, before reaching in to pick up a biscuit and bring it to his lips, curling his tongue over it and sliding it back. 

“Life is what you make of it, is it now Will? And there is enjoyment in everything, is there not?” 

Will shrugged and leaned forward, picking up a piece of chicken and sniffing it. He began to nibble on it carefully, politely.

“I thought you were so careful about what you put into your body.” He gripped the breading with his teeth and pulled back, as if to reveal whatever was hiding out underneath.

Hannibal blinked, pulling apart his biscuit. Will watched as crumbles fell forward, into the box. Hannibal could be so perfectly messy sometimes – who was Will to judge really? Who really was Will when he could see inside Hannibal’s mind as easy as he could see inside his own?

Inside his mind palace, he called it.

“Any reason why KFC in particular?” Will prodded. He let his tongue wrap around the bone, trying not to picture whatever it was Hannibal must be seeing – whoever Hannibal must be seeing. 

He placed the bone, licked clean, back on the plate. His dogs would have loved that chicken, he suspected. He wondered who had them now – Jack was good for that, he knew – he would make sure each got a good home, even as he shook his head.

Even as he must know, must sense that Will was not dead at all because Hannibal could not be dead at all.

“It’s the first thing I saw when I came here to the States. Something about how big, red and flashy it was… it drew me in. Called to me.”

“It seems like a lot of things have called to you,” Will said mildly. “Did you keep that in your mind palace?”

“I did. I was unable to go there that day – I am not sure why it embedded in my mind the way that it has. There are things that stick when you do not always will them to,” he continued, picking up the chicken sandwich from the box and giving Will a knowing gaze.

“Was ‘Will’ a purposeful turn of phrase?” Will inquired with a low chuckle that might have been read as nervous to anyone who didn’t know him well. Was there anyone who knew him better than Hannibal? After all, Hannibal not only knew what Will was thinking but how to place things there – one-upping Will who could merely play the tape whilst Hannibal knew how to record it.

“It may have been. Is there somewhere you would prefer we go in the future? You know that I aim to please.”

Will had never been one who thought about food much, particularly in the way Hannibal seemed to – the way he considered every curve and contour, every aroma to ensure that everything fit together. Particularly if one was going to be eating the rude.

“Were you planning on our next meal to be less feathered and more feather-brained?” Will inquired, allowing the skin off the chicken to stay between his lips a moment later. Hannibal didn’t speak, not for a long moment, and Will wondered if perhaps he hadn’t heard him. That would be unlikely, however – Hannibal could hear a pin drop and analyze it back to where it had fallen.

“Do you presume that young man at the store we just left?” Hannibal inquired. “Chances are that he has or will return, in order to claim the extra chicken he feels he is owed.”

“It is more than a little rude to try and get more chicken than you paid for,” Will agreed. “Especially considering the pennies that ‘Sven’ must be working for.”

“Do I detect some righteous outrage there, Will?”

Will unwrapped the spoon and listened to the light crinkle. It sounded like wind chimes. 

“I worked at Popeyes as a teenager. At the end of the night, they... ration out all the leftover chicken. I couldn’t eat fried chicken for years after that.” He scooped up his mashed potatoes and let it linger on his tongue, the gravy caressing it.

“Chicken little,” Hannibal mused, looking at the label on his sandwich. “Is the sky falling, Will?”

Will’s mind sang out: _over the waterfall. This is my design._

“It is.”


End file.
